A Much Needed Break
by Poli Bear
Summary: Upon dropping in on an old friend on the eve of their final work, The Doctor decides that even the best of play-writes deserves a much-needed break. OS


**A/N: Hello there FanFiction! Long time no see :) Well this is just a short OS that came to me recently. I hope you enjoy and don't forget to review! :D**

**Doctor Who**

A Much Needed Break

Being a play-write in London had its drawbacks. You didn't get time to think about things other than your next release date, you couldn't go and breathe the fumes or feel the bustle of the country's most thriving port town and you don't even get a tea break. That is unless someone arrives in your house to whom a lack of time isn't really relevant.

But as those kinds of people aren't really that common-place, Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth being the last notable example, apart from the madman of Lear's origins, He wasn't really expecting that kind of luxury on the eve of his last butchery by the critics. Trouble is, when you're agonising over how to adequately reason with a bunch of popularity abstinentees who want nearly half of your final work to be reduced to abstract nonsense, your senses don't have much time for anything else, especially not a noise that sounded too unreal, and stuck out in the late-night hum like Britons in the 'Savage East'.

A rap on the door of His study neatly brushed any resolution that He might have been reaching under the Persian rug. "There's someone here to see you Sir," the maid said, her cockney accent still perceivable beneath all that pompous occasion.

"Well inform them they can speak with me on the morrow, as I'm sure every other man in this county will be trying to." Then He looked up and realised who was actually here to see Him.

"Sorry Sir," the maid said, failing to hide the beaming figure that stood behind her. "He insisted." The man waited for the maid to step out of the way before striding into the study, hands in the pockets of the strangest attire you could find this side of the Channel. He'd looked. The maid hovered in the doorway.

"Thank you, that will be all."

"Yes Sir." The door shuts.

"Doctor, Doctor," He says, placing the script He'd been avoiding looking at for almost an entire wick on his desk. "I'm afraid you've caught me at a bad time. I'm ailed with terrible writer's block."

"Just paint a door through it then. Always helps me." The Doctor placed himself in the soft armchair that stood on the room's left side, looking around at the masses of parchment and broken quills that littered every surface above ground level. His eyes glance from this to the script and back again. "How long since you've left this room, and I want an honest answer?"

Silence. The only light in the room responds by finally succumbing, leaving the oil lamps outside to keep up the duty of resolutely looking after Him.

"I see." The Doctor stands up. "Enough work, I'm prescribing you some much needed R and R." He heads towards the door, pulling a hand out of his long-coat pocket to pull the door open but He just stands up, hovering behind his desk.

"R and R?"

"Rest and Relaxation. Have you ever actually tried it before?" This time the oil lamp quivers. The Doctor shakes his head. "You are getting out of this study. Now."

"Seems like only yesterday when we were last here, yet times don't seem to change upon you Doctor."

"I'd like to think I keep up well enough."

"And therein lies the problem. Where's your coloured friend?"

"Elsewhere. And her name is Martha."

He takes a drink, allowing the warmth to linger in his chest. "She back in the 'Savage' East? It's all rubbish by the way, that 'savagery' business. I take it you've read it?"

The Doctor takes a drink of his strange concoction, he called it a "Chola", whatever that was. "Yes I have, of course I have. I helped good-old Monty write and research it after all. I even suggested the title 'Of the Cannibals'. Thought it had a ring to it."

"And a nice touch of irony too," He said, recognizing his friend's achievement with a raised glass and another deep swig.

They sit in silence for a while, admiring the twelve-walled masterpiece they were sitting in, arguably his finest work. With the rows and rows of seats fading back into the thick atmosphere that hung here, even long after the last spoken word had drifted away to be lost among the heavens, it felt like the Roman Colosseum. But instead of the rage, determination and strength that consumed those audiences, London only needed one man, a working quill and just the right actors.

"I grow too old for this Doctor," He smiles, standing upon the platform and gesturing around them. "Tomorrow shall mark my last piece."

"And so right you are. There will always come a time when one's road must end."

"A little fancy don't you think?"

The Doctor snorts before taking another drink of the Chola. "And you are one to talk?" He drops down from the platform, drawing deep canyons through the ground. "Lets get you home then. An early night for an early start."

He lowers himself from the platform to and follows the Doctor's lead, the silence growing with each flicker of a heart that felt almost every emotion the mind could throw at it. This great site for entertainment and theatre, for deep thought and passionate love, where the vast spectrum of human emotion could be cast away allowing for the true feelings of people to finally be heard, would soon become little more than what it began as; a dream.

The door is opened before him and the life rolling outside them leaves him trembling. A voice sounds by his side. "Of course they'll remember you Will. Who couldn't?"

He blinks, preparing himself for the long walk home.

"People of London I ask of thee,  
Let your indulgence set me free."


End file.
